I would make a lot of enemies (with myself too), if I could just open up this page and say whatever I felt like saying all the time.  I would think to that I would be the envy of others for such a frank discussion of my own secrets.  I know some people do that, and I envy them.  If I was an anonymous person, out there in this kind of pseudo micro-world, I might consider just piling up my opened secrets on a table with price tags, and at the right price, I would sell them out until I had none left and I was left monetarily rich, but alone by myself and emptied of supposed “burdens” that I know for a fact, are thevery things that keep me feeling the way I know I’m supposed to feel.  Secrets are like addictive substances, and we — I — need them to feel sane and alive.  I need to hoard them, stuff my pockets with them, save them in a slotted pig, drown myself in them, and only then will I ever keep myself happy, and some people feel the opposite. Poor them.

I want to message you right now, I want to send you a letter or show up at your door and send you every message, every thought, I’ve ever ever had about you, good or bad, in the time that I’ve known you and attack you, choke you, murder you with those piles of thoughts and vignettes and stories and journal entries and secrets and loves and hates and laments and odes, until you couldn’t take anymore, until you knew I was crazy and you knew I was wrong and you were right all along.  Those secrets would make me feel sick and unwanted and failed, and they would only prove you right.

And then there’s the other you, the you I don’t know.  I want to do the same, only the effects of my actions would only be meaner.  They would demonstrate really, that I’m someone who doesn’t really know love.  And that’s a secret I never want to expose to someone ever again.



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